I Fell For You, John
by catcraful
Summary: Almost two years after Mary's death, John can finally find a way back into normal life. At least a life that's as normal as it can get when living with Sherlock Holmes. Rated M for upcoming man-on-man actions and smut.
1. Chapter 1

When he woke up, he found himself in his bed, sheets neatly tucked in. By a quick glance over to the window, Sherlock assumed that it must have been about 5 am – the sun had not risen yet but the sky didn't have the colour of John's favorite tea either. But why was he in his bed? The last thing he remembered was that he laid on the sofa, the sun had already set (although this was hard to tell because of the never-ending rain on the streets of London). He had been in his mind palace, trying to escape from his thoughts. He had been trying to progress in his investigations about the Voynich Manuscript, his latest Mystery of the Month (of course to be solved only when not on a case). But no case, no murder, no mystery, nothing could prevent him from thinking the forbidden thoughts. Nothing helped. He concentrated on botanical sketches, astrological constellations and quickly found himself back in the comfortable and familiar surroundings of his mind palace.

* * *

After a quick shower, John got into the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He automatically put two slices of bread in the toaster, poured enough water for two cups of tea in the kettle and fried enough beans and sausages for a whole family. Only then, he noticed that it was Wednesday and that he was the only person in the flat to have breakfast. Sighing, John sank to his stool, picked up the newspaper and began to eat.

"Sleep well?" Dressed only in his pants and red dressing gown, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, crossed the kitchen and flourishingly fell on the sofa. Burying his face in the Union-Jack-pillow, he stretched out his arm in John's direction, mumbling "tea!"

"But Sherlock – it's Wednesday!" John gave his flat mate a bewildered look.

"Wednesday? Already?" Sherlock's answer confused John even more – but he decided not to care. With a heavy sigh, John got up from the kitchen table which for once was not covered in body parts and more or less dangerous chemicals and cleared his plate. Reaching for his coat and keys, he once more turned to his friend "I'll be home late."

"You were on a date yesterday. Doesn't the protocol say to wait at least two to three days before calling her again?" Sherlock scowled at John, obviously pissed.

"Even though I think that this is none of your business – it was a shitty date and I'll be in a pub with Greg, having one or two beers. I would've invited you, but I kno-"

"Alright, see ya!" Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and crossed the room with five large steps. He slammed the door to his bedroom before John got the chance to finish his sentence.

The doctor still shook his head when he entered his office in the surgery, completely puzzled by the behavior of Sherlock. During the day, he had no more time to remember the morning and by the time he met Greg at the pub, everything was already forgotten.

* * *

"Boring! Boring!" Sherlock shouted with every blow he dealt the dead pig with the ancient sabre. Today, boredom stroke. Boredom and the discomforting thoughts that tried to catch his attention every other minute since Saturday. What was wrong with his brain? Why didn't it work the way it used to? He was no longer able to control his thoughts, they always drifted to... those thoughts. Why?No matter how hard he tried, he could not find an answer to this question.

It was already late afternoon when he finally stopped stabbing the pig. John. When does John come home? Its five pm, he'll finish work in half an hour, considering the traffic, small talk with Sarah, additional paperwork... seventy minutes. Seventy more minutes of this hell called boredom. Sherlock threw the sable on the sofa and turned for the bathroom. Shower, shaving, suit, shoes, coat, scarf... forty-five minutes, maybe forty-seven.

Sherlock turned the shower on for the first time since saturday. Absent-mindedly he accidentally reached for Johns shampoo. The familiar smell of musk and sandalwood overwhelmed him and immediately, the thoughts shoot back into his brain. John's soft hair, damp from the rain, on his shoulder, John's hand in his lap, a slight snort emerging from his mouth.

No. Enough. No more of these thoughts.

Fifty minutes later, Sherlock sat on the couch again, the sable now laying on the coffee table. After endless thirty minutes, he still didn't hear the familiar sound of John's keys in the lock. Why? Where is he? It took him one hour to wander through his mind palace, searching for an answer. At half past eight, Sherlock finally shot up from his place. Pub! Greg! HOW could he forget about it!

_Come home asap. Need your help. SH_

_I'm in the pub, remember? JW_

_It's for a case. SH_

_There is no new case. I'm with Greg, I'd know it. JW_

Sherlock scowled at his phone, well aware that John couldn't see him. Slowly he undid the buttons of his coat, the laces of his right shoe, of his left shoe. Kicking the shoes off, he wandered to his bedroom, undid his tie and threw it on his he strolled back to the living room, picked up his violin and started playing. A soft and charming melody emerged the instrument. He soon lost track of time, could have stood there for seconds, minutes, hours, ages.

* * *

"I wasn't aware you were actually able to play such romantic tunes. " Sherlock did not hear John coming home. Apparently he must have come about ten minutes ago, his coat was on its hanger, and he held two cups of tea in his hands. His reassuring smile did not touch his eyes - oh dear, he's mad. Why?

"What's wrong, John?", Sherlock asked friendly.

"Back to you, Sherlock. You seem to be well occupied. Why the hell did I need to come?"

"Oh isn't it so obvious?"

"No, Sherlock, not to me."

"Gah!", Sherlock pouted and left for his bedroom. He couldn't bare John's little brain any more. After two minutes and 47 seconds. He'd imagined this evening to be... better.

"Sherlock Holmes. Come out there. I left Greg and my beer halfway drunken so you better carry your ass here and stop being an complete arse and tell me WHAT THE HECK YOU WANT!" John did not quite understand himself and why he was so in rage but it seemed to help because Sherlock immediately unlocked his door and came back to the living room, grabbed one of the cups and cautiously began to drink the hot beverage. "Speak to me, Sherlock."

"I was wondering why I woke up in my bed this morning."

"Well because I brought you there after you fell off the sofa having a nightmare." John seemed to be surprised by his question.

"I don't remember a nightmare. I never have nightmares. Except... no. You must have mistaken."

"Um, I certainly know what nightmares look like. You were all sweaty, not approachable and always called out that one word.. umm... redhead. Yeah must have been redhead or redband or something.

"Redbeard."

"Yeah actually I think that was it. Redbeard. What does that mean? Is it a case?"

"Yeah. The case of the lonely child and his dead dog." Sherlock slammed his cup obviously angry on the counter and started to walk back into his room but was held by the hood of his dressing gown.

"Why did I have to return, Sherlock?"

"I was bored."

"You didn't seem to be bored."

"You made clear that you wouldn't come so I thought I'd make the time pass quicker."

"Of course I came. I'd always come. Come on Sherlock. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's the fifth."

* * *

John took in a sharp breath. He thought of it. Of course he thought of it. For the last 23 months, the fifth had always been a black day for them. And then, suddenly, he realized. He had forgotten. John felt the floor slip away under his feet. In slow motion, he saw the windows collide, the ceiling came down. He forgot. He forgot it. He forgot her. His head felt heavy and he waited for it to crash on the floor. But instead of the pain, the long awaited pain that should punish him for forgetting, he felt Sherlock's strong arms catching him.


	2. Chapter 2

His whole body felt numb. John lay shivering on the sofa. It was cold, so cold. How could he?How could he forget? In the corner of his eyes, John could see Sherlock standing in the doorway. "Cold... Blanket.. Please" Sherlock raised his head and left for his bedroom to return with his bedspread.

Sherlock knelt down next to his mate to be on eye level with him. "Are you okay, John?"

John turned his head towards him. Their noses were only inches apart. "How could I forget?" His question was barely a whisper, but Sherlock understood.

"You didn't forget. You maybe suppressed. All this work, a lot of stuff in your tiny brain..."

"I.." With Sherlock's smell of body wash and - was this tobacco? - John was unable to think properly, neither could he form full sentences. His attempt in rising up on the couch failed and so he stayed where he was, but he bended his legs a bit to make place for Sherlock. The large man got up from the floor and threw himself next to John on the couch. He landed on the remote and James May appeared on the telly. Sherlock reached under his butt to grab the remote, but John stopped him. "Nah it's alright. Distraction is good."

"I think that we really should talk about this, John"

"But I don't want to talk. Please, Sherlock, for once be your inhuman self and don't talk."

* * *

Sherlock did as he was told, but other than John, he didn't turn his head towards the telly but left his eyes on John's face. Sherlock's face was rather concerned, just like his thoughts. He hated to see his John like this, so sad. Mary once told him, that whenever he thought that nobody could see him, John had been just like this, unbearably sad. But this was back then when he still thought that Sherlock was dead, almost three years ago now. Sherlock had returned - and John was more than happy about that - but the incidents that lay exactly 23 months away changed everything. The pain John had felt through the lost of his best friend was nothing in comparison to the pain he was feeling since that night in January almost two years ago. First he lost his unborn child, a little girl, only two months before the due date. The wanted to call her Scarlett - Sherlock would have preferred Sherlock, but apparently Mary and John didn't want him to choose the name for some strange reason.

Mary got shot and John had to choose whom to save - her or the baby. Even Sherlock knew that this was the toughest and most unfair decision a man would ever have to take and that he would not have been able to choose. John decided in Mary's favor - the baby died that same night. Mary remained unconscious for three days until she was put in an artificial coma. She died eleven days after her daughter, on the 17th of January 2014.

Sherlock felt loss, Sherlock felt pain. He shared his best friend's emotions that he had locked away very efficiently for almost twenty-five years. When he experienced these feelings for the first time, he tried to forget, forget how it felt to be in a pain that rips your heart out of your breast and leaves you numb to the world.

John was right. He had a nightmare that night. Since the devastating events around Christmas the year before last, it reoccurred every now and then. But as he was usually not watched while sleeping, nobody knew about it. To him, it didn't mean a lot. He knew that he went through a lot of tough stuff but damn it - he was a fucking high-functioning sociopath, his brain should be knowing better. Loss, feelings, love - he abandoned all of this shit years ago out of his head - and heart. Why did it come back? HOW did it come back? How could it possibly sneak back into his head and fill every unused and uncrowded corner of his mind-palace and distract him from every usable thought he produced in the last two years? At first, Sherlock deduced that he was in shock and that his brain had to kind of reboot. But after six weeks, it should have rehabbed, shouldn't it?

Sherlock had lost track of time. His mate was fast asleep next to him, holding the blanket up halfway through his face. If he didn't know better, Sherlock may have thought that John wanted to inhale the blanket. One could still read the pain in his face, but he looked peaceful, laying there on the couch, facing the ceiling. Sherlock got up and left for his room. He wanted to soothe John's dreams and thoughts and caught his violin to play a lovely, pacific tune.

* * *

It was now John's turn to wake up disorientated. But as soon as he took one breath, he felt safe. We wasn't quite sure, why. But then he realized the soft music that filled the room and the tranquilizing smell of vanilla and tobacco and - Sherlock. All out of a sudden, John was wide awake. He sat up on the couch, thankfully he didn't feel dizzy anymore. Why again? Work, so much work, no lunch, no dinner, drinks... Mary. On the one hand, he was proud of his increasing deduction skills (even if they only included deducing his own health and condition) but on the other hand, the pain and the sudden realization of its' origin hit him like a train.

The tunes suddenly stopped. "Go on, please. That was lovely."

"You are up and talking. I assume that you're feeling better. Lack of food in combination with stress and alcohol - never good. Especially on a day like this."

"God, Sherlock, please. Stop it! You're only making it worse! Just please - go on playing. Tea?" John lifted himself and got to the kitchen. But Sherlock didn't go on playing. Instead he stood in the middle of the living room, the violin in the left hand, his bow in the right one, staring at John, his eyes following each and every movement.

"Stop it, Sherlock! Now!" It was unnerving. Why couldn't he leave him alone? He was alright. Everything was fine. "I won't collapse again, promise. It was the lack of food. I eat now and then I'll be better. What's the time?"

"Three fifty in the morning. You slept for about six hours." Sherlock lay his violin down on top of the fire place next to his skull, his eyes still tracing John. He could see that his mate still didn't feel well at all. He watched him prepare a jelly-sandwich and set up two cups of tea. "You really shouldn't drink tea at this hour. The theine will keep you up for the rest of the night. As you'll have to get up at 7.35 for work, you bet-"

"I'll be okay. How come you are so concerned about my well-being and me sleeping?" John gave his friend a long look until he heard the whistle announcing that the water was boiling. He filled it in two cups and brought them along with his sandwich to the living room where he sat down in his chair opposite to Sherlock.

The two looked at each other, Sherlock rather concerned, John tired and still upset about himself. At some point, he realized that he really didn't forget. But he felt so guilty. For the first time in nearly two years, everything felt at least slightly normal. He went to work again, regularly. He had friends, not a lot and not any new ones, but he stuck with Greg, Molly, Mike, Mrs. Hudson and - most importantly - Sherlock. He brought him back to Baker Street, to normality, to life. Even though John still didn't feel able to join Sherlock on crime scenes and solve crimes with him, their friendship had grown strong over the past years. The guys at the Yard apparently even had begun to joke about their "special" friendship again and assumed that they were in a relationship, just like before. And maybe that was right. They were in some kind of relationship, not a sexual one, though. That's what John had realized and what had helped him surviving the death of his wife. Sherlock and him, they were inseparable, nobody could ever get in between them nor separate them. As long as John knew, that Sherlock was around, everything was better. So yes, maybe they were in some kind of strange relationship. But John didn't care about other's opinion. They should think what they wanted to think.

* * *

"I have never seen you stare and say nothing for such a long time. I asked you a question."

"S...sorry, I was.. My thoughts.. Please, what did you ask?"

"I wanted to know if you honestly plan on going to work tomorrow. You didn't take leave in more than 20 months now. We could.. Leave, fly somewhere maybe."

John stared at Sherlock. Did he honestly just suggest to go on vacation? Sherlock was bored all the time - what would happen on, say, an abandoned island? A lonely beach? "I don't think that it would be a great idea to go on a holiday with you. You'd be bored all the time."

"Don't you think there are cases on the other end of the world?"

"So far?" But John had to admit that he liked the thought of traveling, of going away. But with Sherlock? This could be exhausting. Maybe this was just the distraction he needed. He grabbed his laptop from under his chair and opened up Chrome. "So, where do you wanna go? Any suggestions?"


	3. Chapter 3

Six hours later, John still couldn't quite believe what was just happening. He sat in an airplane, first class, next to his best friend, flying to France. Mycroft apparently owned a house on the sea side near Carcassonne, that's where they were going. John closed his eyes and remembered the last few hours with a slight involuntary smile. All out of a sudden, Sherlock had been all enthusiastic about going on a vacation. He told John about Mycroft's house and how they used to go there when they were kids. "It was my aunt's place, the best thing about it was that it was outlying. There are no neighbors, you have direct access to the beach. I used to spend nights outside, watching the stars move.."  
"Well you know that it's actually not the stars that move?" John had chuckled.

Sherlock had him at 'South of France', John had always wanted to go there.  
So now, they were sitting in a small plane, flying over France. John was as happy as he could possibly have gotten. Sherlock had called in the office for him, telling them - in a way that only Sherlock would do (not that John minded) - that John needed a break from everything and wouldn't be available the following three weeks. They planned on returning just in time for New Year's as they were invited to a party at Greg's and of course John insisted on attending. His colleagues understood, they took over his patients and wished them a safe trip.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't told John, how tiny the house actually was. It was a small old one story building, had one large living room with open kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom. But as they were used to their small London flat, they were perfectly fine with it. When they arrived, it was raining, so John decided to lit a fire in the fireplace in front of the comfy couch he planned on relaxing on later, maybe with a glass of wine. Meanwhile, Sherlock brought their bags to the bedrooms, noticing that one of it was locked. "John, is there another key on the chain? This room is locked."

"Nah.. Just break in, it's not like you never did that before."

Sherlock tried. And failed. "It's an old rusty lock and a heavy wooden door, I'm afraid, I can't. Imma call Mycroft." He fiddled his phone out if his pocket and dialed his brother's number. "Mycroft. Where is the key... Yes. Of course we need it. Well... No.. No. Myc-" he hung up.

"Found the key, Sherlock?" John had finally managed to lit the fire and came over to Sherlock.

"I'm afraid one of us will have to take the couch." he answered with a shrug and opened the door to the other bedroom. "Mycroft said that he has 'personal items' in there which are apparently none of our business. He made the housekeeper lock the door before we came."

John furrowed his brows. "He knew that we both would come. But I'm sure we'll find a solution." They entered a beautiful bedroom, facing the sea. One wall was made out of glass, so that not a single inch of the breath-taking view was blocked. In the middle of the room was a giant wooden bed with fluffy white blankets. The walls were white and the ceiling was of a very dark blue - almost black - and had glow-in-the-dark stars all over it. The room literally took John's breath away. "Wow.. This is... I.. Wow."

"Mycroft had the entire house modernized three years ago. Apparently they missed out the doors... Anyway, this had been our room when we were kids and Mycroft conveyed it to me."

"You - you chose the stars?" John asked with a grin. This appeared to be way too romantic for Sherlock.

"I told you about me watching the stars here. I arranged these in the same constellation you can see in the night of my birthday when you're down at the beach." Sherlock blushed a little. It had been a childish decision back then, but when he was 'dead' and spent nearly three months in the house, he needed something comforting and this definitely helped.

"I'd love to go out and watch the stars right now. Too bad it's raining." John sighed. "May I use one of the drawers? I'm good with the couch but don't want to live out of the suitcase for the next three weeks."  
"The two upper drawers are empty. You can have one bedding of mine."

* * *

Two hours later, the two of them sat in front of the fireplace, John on the couch under a soft blanket he found in a rocker, Sherlock on the floor. John made him eat some cheese and grapes he found in the fridge along with some fresh baguette. The earlier mentioned housekeeper had thought of everything they may need, including several bottles of Sherlock's favorite red wine. It was only three o'clock, but due to the rain it was already pretty dark outside. Sherlock got up to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses and one bottle, while John set up his laptop on the coffee table in order to start a DVD. "Which film do you want to watch?"

"I don't know any. Choose one."

Watson brought a few with them, as he thought of looking at the weather forecast whilst packing his bag. He was almost sure that Sherlock won't pay any attention, so he chose one of the Potter-movies, as it would entertain him for at least three hours.

Hedwig's theme started just when Sherlock came back, in the one hand the wine, in the other hand his iPad. Of course he brought work. John sighed, shook his head a little and moved to make space for his flatmate. He tapped next to himself to make Sherlock understand that he shall sit down next to John. Sherlock flipped himself onto the couch and conquered the blanket.  
"Hey that was mine!", John pouted and pulled on the blanket. In the end, they shared the blanket, both sipping the wine and enjoying themselves, John with the wizards at Hogwarts and Sherlock with his research on the Voynich Manuscripts.

At some point, John fell asleep, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. To make them both more comfortable, Sherlock put away his iPad and lay one arm around John, in which the sleeping one immediately snuggled in. He restarted the film as he didn't want to move and wake John and actually enjoyed it.

* * *

When John woke up, he found himself huddled up against a sleeping Sherlock who had wrapped both of his arms around him. He shifted slightly because his leg had fallen asleep, and thereby woke up his friend.

Sherlock immediately withdrew his arms and stretched. "I was so tired." He yawned and sat back cross-legged.

"Mhm..", John yawned as well and got up in order to make some tea. "What's the time?"

"Shortly after eight." Sherlock replaced the DVD through the next part. This made John give him a bewildered look, but Sherlock just shrugged. "I struggled through the last one, now I want to know what it means for the lad to be 'the chosen one'."

John laughingly came back with with two cups of tea in his hands and handed one to Sherlock. They ended up watching two more parts before Sherlock finally got up and went to the bedroom, only to come back ten minutes later in his pajamas and with two beddings under his arm. "Fancy a slumber party?"

* * *

**Next chapter will probably be up in two days.**

**Thank you all for reading and reviewing. I hope y'all enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it for you. x **


	4. Chapter 4

**I honestly didn't think that so many of you would read this. Thank you so much for reading, commenting and following! X**

* * *

John noticed how hard Sherlock tried to help him to forget what had happened in the last two years. And most of the time, he really did feel good. It was not like he forgot Mary, of course not. But he forgot the pain. Step by step, the grief vanished and he did his best only to remember the good things. Only the fifth, the day she died, still remained a black day. But did it really? As it kept raining constantly, John had plenty of time he spent on the couch where he could dwell on thoughts. There must have been another reason why he didn't think of her death one week ago. Well of course, he thought of her death, but he didn't grieve. She was always in his head, in his heart, but it wasn't as bad anymore. "I think I finally get over it. In a way. I think."

Sherlock tilted his head up to look John in the eyes. He sat on the floor again, resting his back against the couch. "Get over what?"

"Um.. Mary. Mary's death. I think." He frowned. John had thought about it since they arrived six days ago.

Sherlock lifted himself up on the couch to sit next to his mate."That's good, isn't it?" "Yeah I think so. I.. I mean. I thought about last week. A lot. And I'm convinced that I didn't forget it. I simply didn't feel that overwhelmed and hurt. When I realized it, I was shocked because I didn't expect to ever feel this... Normal again. It's... In a way it's like when I met Mary after you - uh - died."

Sherlock watched him interested. "Did you meet someone?"

"What? No! No of course I didn't meet someone. I don't want to. I just - I mean uh... We spend a lot of time together and.. Greg. I meet Greg a lot. I - I am sociable again."

"Of course?", Sherlock enquired.

"Of course?" John interrogatively frowned again.

"You said 'of course I didn't meet someone'. Do you not want to meet someone new?"

"Umm.. Well... I don't know. I mean - I still love her. I still wish she hadn't died. I always will. But.. Yeah maybe. Not now, but... Some day maybe."

"Okay." That's all that Sherlock answered before he returned to his book. It was already past seven and as this conversation obviously was finished, John got up and strolled towards the kitchen. Lisa, their housekeeper, had filled the fridge only hours ago and John was pleased to find a chicken. "Fancy coq au vin?", he shouted in Sherlock's direction.

"It's Wednesday!" Was Sherlock's answer but John ignored it and started chopping an onion anyway. He already made him eat a croissant in the morning and he knew how much he liked coq au vin. At some point, Sherlock actually joined him in the kitchen. He didn't intend on helping but sat down on the countertop and insisted on tasting everything. "You behave like a five-year-old! You won't be hungry anymore once the chicken is ready."

"Mhm", Sherlock murmured between two licks on the cooking spoon. "But it's so good. It's my favorite dish now." "I thought fish and chips was?", John asked laughing.

* * *

Eventually it stopped raining for the first time in the last week and John and Sherlock decided to go down to the beach whilst the chicken cooked in the oven. Sherlock excitedly showed John all of his favorite spots though it was dark and he didn't really see much. At some point, John wanted to return, but Sherlock insisted on showing him one more place. "Please John. It's the best. You'll see." The sky had finally cleared up and the stars came through. The place where Sherlock wanted to go lay on the rocks and of course he knew the way by heart, but John struggled finding the right stones to step on. Sherlock held his hand out and John thankfully took it.

Sherlock was astonished at how good John's hand felt in his. It's not as if they'd never held hands before, but it was usually when they were running through London and Sherlock had to drag his friend because his legs were so much shorter. In these moments he never thought about it but now, it almost felt as if their hands were made to be held by each other. Sherlock couldn't stop these thoughts at the moment, he had to for way too long and at the moment, he was way too happy to do so. He memorized the feeling of John's hand in his in his mind palace in John's room (he actually occupied a whole floor up there).

When they arrived at Sherlock's favorite spot on the beach, Sherlock was too deep in thoughts and John was too breathless to let go of each other's hands. That's why they stood there endless minutes sucking in the astonishing view. They could overlook the whole beach and see far out on the ocean. There were thousands of stars in the sky. "Wow, this is.." John cleared his throat. "Thank you"

Sherlock turned to face him, still holding his hand. "What for?" "For... For so much. For bringing me here. For showing me this. For helping me. For being there. For not being dead. For.. " John gulped, he was unable to finish his speech. Instead, he reached out and hugged Sherlock tightly. Sherlock wanted to let go of John's hand, but his friend squeezed it and held it until they came back to the cottage where the chicken was now ready to be eaten.

* * *

After dinner, they settled back in front of the fireplace as it was the warmest and most cozy place in the house. John watched Sherlock wondering about his notes on the manuscript-problem, as he wasn't confused and all lost on a regular basis. This was quite a rare view John simply had to enjoy. He sipped on his third glass of wine, already feeling slightly dizzy. When he got up to get a new bottle from the kitchen, Sherlock threw his to John incomprehensible notes in the fire. "GAH! I hate insolvable problems!"

"Sherlock! You worked on these notes for three weeks now! You cannot simply throw them away." John looked at him in shock. Sherlock must've been really desperate.

"Of course I can, it were my notes... And I stored them up here anyway", he replied tapping on his temple. "Hand me some wine!" He drowned his glass in one big swallow and held it out towards John, waiting for a refill.

"You shouldn't drink that wine too fast - it's quite strong." But John refilled the glass anyways. They sat on the couch in silence, both drinking the wine and watching the papers disappear in the fire.

Sherlock could have sat there for ages. Of course, he was upset that he was stuck in his case, but he enjoyed being so close to John. By now, he didn't feel guilty anymore about these feelings and thoughts. He knew that they were all his and that John would never know about them even though he wished otherwise. He wished to take John's hand again, to lay his arm around his shoulders again, he even wished to catch him again, just like when he slipped on the stones earlier that evening.

He felt the alcohol arrive in his brain and the thoughts became worse, memories got mixed up with wishes and suddenly, Sherlock thought about the touch of John's hand on his bare chest, the softness of his skin on his neck... He couldn't help it. He tried to stop - but failed. His train of thoughts only got interrupted through the sudden buzzing of his phone. He fiddled it out of his pocket, but as he was already pretty half-cut, he lost balance and landed on John. Both men started giggling and the giggles developed into loud laughs, Sherlock's deep baritone in perfect harmony with John's higher pitched voice. Sherlock didn't make an attempt to move and even when their laughs had already become silent, Sherlock still lay on top of his best friend, looking him in the eyes.

I can't.. I can't stand... John's thoughts whirled around in his head. Sherlock lay on top of him and looked him in the eyes with a regard John had never seen in his eyes before. It was... Lingering, wanting, like a small child in a toy store before Christmas. John even thought he saw a glimpse of love in his eyes, but did his best at thrusting this notion aside.

They lay there in silence for several countless minutes until suddenly Sherlock leaned further down, their noses now barely an inch apart. They were breathing the same air, the sweet air of old wood and red wine. The wine. I shouldn't have drunk so much wine. John could barely keep his mind together and before he knew what was happening, his lips met Sherlock's in a sweet and chaste kiss.

* * *

Surprised but John's sudden act, Sherlock winced and John immediately let go. "No", the detective whispered and brought his mouth back on John's. Their innocent kiss slowly but surely got a lot more heated and within minutes, they found themselves in a comfortable position, Sherlock on top of John, making out in front of the fireplace.

When they broke apart to catch their breaths, John had to laugh at the sudden realization.

"What is it?", asked Sherlock, searching for evidence in John's eyes. Were his kisses really THAT bad?

"It's nothing, just... Making out in front of a fireplace? How cheesy!" Sherlock made a move to get up, but John held him by his arms. "I like cheesy!" And his already swollen lips found Sherlock's again for another round of cheesy hooking up.


End file.
